I want to share a story that highlights one of the most essential aspects of personal transformation: owning your story.
A few days ago, I said something that landed me in a bit of trouble—not with anyone else, but with myself.
I was asked, “How are you handling your grief over losing Pete?” If you read my piece a few months ago, you may remember that I had to say goodbye to my beloved Soul Puppy. Watching Pete cross the rainbow bridge turned my world inside out. I felt like I lost a part of myself. My mental health spiraled. My physical health suffered. I stress ate. I gained weight. I wasn’t sleeping. I lashed out at people I cared about. Simply put, I was a mess.
This conversation happened on my birthday. The past few years, I had taken the day off from work to spend it with Pete. We’d go for long walks and play our version of fetch—where he’d run after the object but refuse to bring it back, making me chase him.
But this year, Pete wasn’t there. Instead, I was in a training meeting at work, trying to keep my birthday under wraps. That plan failed when my friend and manager decided to announce it to the entire region. I guess I didn’t want to face the reality of my grief slapping me upside the head.
“I didn’t know today was your birthday,” my district manager texted.
Yeah, because I don’t like wearing a giant, flashy sign that says so.
They meant well, but still…
Back to the question: how am I handling my grief?
When I’m not avoiding it, I’ve been handling it poorly.
Then, I said the words that got me into trouble:
“I feel like so much of my identity was being Pete’s human. And now… I’m not Pete’s human.”
Just typing that sentence makes me feel things I don’t want to feel.
For over ten years, I woke up every morning to feed Pete, give him fresh water, and walk him. I was the only human he truly knew. Sure, he met other people, but I was his person. From the moment I adopted him at nine months old, I was his world.
I believed my identity was being Pete’s human.
If I were editing a manuscript and saw this as a plot point, my note would be, “You lost that narrative thread. Let’s figure out how to own that piece again.”
So, I’m giving myself that same note. I lost ownership of my story. I let the story write me instead of writing my own story.
Good, bad, or ugly—my identity runs deep.
“I’m just a simple man from Alabama.”
“I’m shy.”
“I’m hopelessly single.”
“Nobody wants me,” I told myself during my endless job search last summer.
“I’m no longer Pete’s human.”
We all have these stories we tell ourselves. But here’s the truth:
Yes, I’m from Alabama. My story began at the end of a cul-de-sac in Tuscaloosa, and I’m proud of that. That’s part of what I am, but it isn’t who I am.
Yes, I can come off as shy. That survival mechanism has protected me many times. But if you know me beyond the surface, you know how funny and warm I can be. Shyness is part of what I am, but it isn’t who I am.
Yes, I’m currently single. I’ve dated (and had my heart broken) by brilliant, warm, loving, beautiful women. That’s part of my story, but it isn’t my identity.
My point is: what we are will never define us. Who we are is a textured, layered blanket that we’ll never fully unravel.
So, back to my identity crisis with Pete. Yes, Pete is no longer here. His ashes sit in an urn where he used to sleep. But that doesn’t mean I’m no longer his human.
That dog made me laugh more times than I can count. The way he romped through the snow, living his best life while I pouted about walking in it (but secretly loving his antics). The way he snatched a green pen off my desk while I was editing my first book manuscript, chewed it up, and left green paw prints all over my floor. The way he barked at my cow neighbors in our old house—and how they mooed back, mocking him.
But he was also by my side during the darkest season of my life. After I buried my dad, Pete’s granite-cast head never left my lap as he licked away my tears. He even sensed something was off with my landlords before they evicted me.
Long after we reunite in Heaven, I will still be Pete’s human. The hero’s welcome I once got when I walked through the door is gone. But the memories remain. The weight of his body against mine at night is gone, but the comfort he gave me still lingers.
And don’t get me wrong—I’ll get another dog one day. But there will never be another Pete.
I was inspired to write this after reading a post from a woman who lost her adult son last summer. She wrote, “I wear my grief like a badge of honor.”
So, to answer the question: how am I handling my grief?
I wear it like a badge of honor. I’m still the same evolving human I’ve always been. Only now, I’m grieving the soul dog who saved my life and taught me how to be a man.
In closing, what I am is way more than Pete’s human. I am a storyteller. I am an author. I am a man. I am a friend. I am a coach. I am a salesperson.
But who I am can’t be easily quantified.
So, let me ask you this:
What’s a story you’ve been telling yourself that no longer serves you? What if you took control and rewrote it? What if, instead of an ending, it’s just the start of something new?
—
This Post is republished on Medium.
—
Photo credit: iStock
